


Waking Night

by anthean



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Blood, F/F, world's worst selkie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 07:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16132394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthean/pseuds/anthean
Summary: Give me back my skin, elf.





	Waking Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solanaceae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/gifts).



> For Solanaceae!
> 
> Very slight AU, I guess-- the published Silmarillion says that Beren and Luthien fled Angband "heedless and without disguise". In this universe, Luthien took the bat-fell of Thuringwethil with her somehow.
> 
> Also some liberties taken with what Thuringwethil actually *is*.

_ Give me back my skin, elf. _

She wanders out of the paths of dream into the waking night. Her tree sways in the gentle wind, limbs arcing up to caress the sky, and between the leaves glint the stars, heavy and close overhead. No clouds, no moon.

A voice.

Beren sleeps still, lies bundled in blankets beside her on the high platform, deep in mortal dream. Not likely to wake for a while yet, not until the Sun mounts the sky in the east and gilds the trees of their island with light. Now, enfolded in the night, she is alone.

The time left to her unknown, and she will be alone for half of it.

_ My skin. _

The voice is familiar, timbre resonating somewhere within her without disturbing the air, but she can’t place it. She slides to her feet, letting the blankets drop away, and reaches out, combing the night with thought.

The top of the tree. Something there, someone waiting.

A few light leaps take her higher into the tree, passing swiftly over the branches until she perches in the uppermost twigs, until her head breaks the canopy of leaves and the night wind wafts across her face. She hums to herself, a few notes in praise of the night, more thought than sound, and feels something shudder.

“Who seeks me?” Lúthien asks.

_ You slew me. _

There, just below the highest leaves, a patch of darker shadow. She ducks below the canopy, letting the leaves shade her face from the starlight, and looks closer. There is barely any form to see, only darker shadows pooling in the hollow of a throat, the pit of an eye. But she knows the shape now, knows the spirit before her.

“Thuringwethil.”

_ Your eyes are keen. _

“What do you here?”

_ My skin! _ A whine.  _ You took it from me, you kept it for yourself. Give it back! _

The bat-fell, she remembers now, stripped from the corpse of Sauron’s messenger. She shudders at the memory: rough leathery wings cupping the air, her talons and jaws sticky with drying blood, the way the night had become a map of sound and shape.

“What need have you of a skin?” she asks. “Are you not Maia, even as my mother? Can you not clothe yourself in thought, even as she?”

Laughter on the wind, shaking the leaves. _ You speak true, elf.  _ The mass of shadow under the branches grows sharper; she can almost see a face peering out at her.  _ For I am Maia. Did I not roam the gardens of Lorien for long ages while the world was empty, and did I not walk with your mother there? Sweet fruits there were in those gardens, but I found sweeter flesh across the Sea. _ The scent of blood rises thick in the air.

“A clever trick,” Lúthien says. “Answer my question.”

Thuringwethil wafts closer: there are limbs and teeth in the shadow now.  _ What need have I of a skin? What need have you? Why not shed your body and go about, as you say, clothed in thought?  _

“I cannot. I am mortal.”

_ And you have discovered the pleasure of skin, have you not? Fruit bursting between your teeth, the juice dripping down your chin, licking it up with your tongue. Or the touch of your husband’s hands, his mouth on your breast. _

The scent of blood swells around her again. Lúthien opens her mouth and lets it flood in, thick and liquid on her tongue, and shivers.

_ Heady, isn’t it? _

“Yes,” Lúthien breathes.

_ Let me have it.  _ The shadow of Thuringwethil is all around her now, deep and silken, blotting out the stars.  _ Give me my skin, let me drink again. _

The darkness is soft, welcoming, like joining her voice to a chorus after singing alone for too long. It’s intoxicating.

Too much so. Lúthien flexes her hands, feels rough bark beneath them, feels leaves brushing her face, and surges towards the top of the tree. She thrusts her head into the open air and shakes out her hair. There are the stars above her, limning the land for miles with faint light, and in the east, the newborn glimmer of dawn. Deep in the tree, a hiss of anger as Thuringwethil’s spell breaks.

“You lack the strength,” Lúthien says. The shadow under her feet wavers. Lúthien considers, then ducks back into the tree, but Thuringwethil does not try to consume her again.

She was right.

“Poor shade!” Lúthien laughs. “For shade you are, weak without form, a wisp of night. Dawn comes soon, little shade. You had best seek some deeper shadow, lest the sun burn you away.”

_ Let me have my body back. _ Whining again, a taint of desperation.  _ What use have you for it? _

“All the use in the world, if only to frustrate you,” Lúthien says, and laughs again when Thuringwethil screeches her dismay. “Go, go! These woods are not dark enough for you by day, and I would not have you scorched from the earth so quickly.”

_ I will return. You cannot hide it from me forever. Tomorrow night, and the next, and the next. I will haunt you! _

“I hope you do,” Lúthien says, and doesn’t question why the thought fills her with something dark and satisfying.

The shadows lighten, and she is alone. High in the branches, she waits for dawn.


End file.
